


Escapade

by Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-13
Updated: 2008-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:16:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meredith Rodney McKay, having survived the vicissitudes of Harrow and Oxford, and the trials of losing both his parents at a young age, had long since been accustomed to enjoy the lifestyle which an easy competence and a large estate in the North of England afforded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Escapade

**Author's Note:**

> I've been reading too much Heyer of late, and Cate is a bad, bad enabler. This is entirely her fault; if this does go any further, all future parts are pre-emptively her fault, too. I'm really very sorry.

Meredith Rodney McKay, having survived the vicissitudes of Harrow and Oxford, and the trials of losing both his parents at a young age, had long since been accustomed to enjoy the lifestyle which an easy competence and a large estate in the North of England afforded. Not being much interested in the whirl of the Season or the delights of fine society, he ventured to London only rarely, and then only when his affairs demanded it. However, his young sister and ward, Miss Jean McKay, being lately returned to his care from the seminary in Bath which had been entrusted to provide her with those accomplishments which society thought vital and Rodney thought nonsense, Rodney reluctantly felt that it was time to order the dust sheets removed from the furniture of the townhouse which had stood mostly idle for nearly two decades, and to head south with Jeannie for her first Season.

There was little Rodney felt willing or able to do to assist in what seemed to be the curiously lengthy business of helping a very silly eighteen year old to attend a series of very silly parties.

"Not just parties, Mer!" Jeannie informed him with all the knowledge of one who has spent many hours with her schoolfriends pouring over the fashion plates in the _La Belle Assemblée_ and the society pages in the newspaper. "How you do scold! There shall be balls and assemblies and rout-parties, riding out in the park and smart beaux and Almack's — and I do not aspire to be at the highest kick of fashion, you know, but I should at least like to appear respectable!"

"Mmm," Rodney responded, eyeing the dressmaker's bill in his hand; he was not, admittedly, much in the habit of hiring mantua-makers or milliners from Paris, but even he did not think that it was usual for them to provide bills nearly as long as the last paper he had presented at the Royal Society. "And respectability can be acquired for the price of fifty ells of finest quality muslin, I see."

"Dearest Mer!" Jeannie said, standing up on tip toe to kiss him on the cheek, "I knew you would understand!" Then she was gone, off on yet another shopping expedition with Cousin Samantha before Rodney had time to draw breath; and he was left alone in the drawing room, contemplating the plaster-work on the ceiling and the rewards which he fervently hoped would come eventually to over-indulgent older brothers, if not to their pocket books.

 

* * *

 

Their Cousin Samantha, though a distant relation, and that by marriage alone, was more than happy to assist Jeannie in all the places where the want of a close female relation was most lacking — in the procurement of suitable outfits, and introductions to several key arbiters of the _ton_, and of course in the acquisition of those all important vouchers to Almack's.

"I am not sure how amusing you'll find it," she said with a smile as she visited with them that morning, "They do stand very much on ceremony, you know, and the most memorable balls of the season are usually—"

"But it's _Almack's_!" Jeannie interrupted, eyes so bright at the prospect of spending several stiff hours cooped up with members of the _ton_ that Rodney could not find it in himself to puncture her happiness, nor to refuse her request that he come with her on her debut.

If Rodney had his druthers, he would far rather sit at home in front of the fire with a good book; but all his childhood squabbles with Jeannie had never quite taught him the means to resist her when she was in a stubborn mood; and when faced with the thoughts of dancing and pink champagne and eligible young men, she apparently became quite stubborn. And so Rodney found himself that evening in Almack's, uncomfortable in his starched collar, standing against the wall, hands clasped and fidgeting behind his back, watching with approval as Samantha introduced her cousin to several hopeful mamas and aspiring sons; Jeannie's dance card was quick to fill with names which not even those of the very _haut ton_ could object to on grounds of family, respectability or fortune.

Jeannie was quite pink with pleasure, blonde curls bouncing with each toss of her head; Rodney was no less pleased, though perhaps less demonstrative about it. He had no doubt but that by the end of the Season, he would have done his duty by his family and seen her allied to some creditable family or other; and he had every reason to hope that he would do duty to his affection for her as a sister, and hand her over to a man who was as fond of her as he was.

At first, Rodney was so caught up in these thoughts, and in watching Jeannie as she moved down the dance with her latest partner, that he didn't realise that he was being watched in his turn. And yet after a little while, he became conscious of a face which was turned frequently in his direction — that of a tall gentleman who had not long since entered the room. He was standing across the way from Rodney with his party — a fair girl with a hint of mischief in her smile; a dark-haired woman who carried her head high — not showily dressed, but neatly, in spotless white knee-breeches and a coat of blue superfine which fit his shoulders to a nicety. Rodney knew that he had been away from the circles of any of those who would aspire to be all the crack in fashion for some time, but even he couldn't make out if this gentleman's hairstyle was that of a dandy, or merely of someone indifferent to fashion.

Intriguing, and a little distracting; but Rodney studiously turned back to watch the dance floor, waiting for Jeannie's partner to relinquish her so that they could go in to supper. His sister, however, had other plans, for she claimed a prior acquaintance with that fair-haired young woman — a Miss Cadman, it seemed, with whom she had attended that ridiculously over-priced school in Bath — and soon Rodney found himself making his leg as he was introduced to Miss Cadman, lately of the Misses Duttons' Seminary for Young Ladies in Bath; to the Hon. Mrs Weir, a distant cousin of hers from Norfolk; and to Miss Cadman's guardian, Lord John Sheppard, the younger son of the Marquess of N—.

"Delighted," Rodney said formally when he lifted his head — though there was a hint of amusement in the hazel eyes looking back at him which made Rodney think that just for once, he might not have to exaggerate his reaction to someone in the name of social formality.

They led the ladies in to supper; the party was a little uneven, true, what with the other gentleman of Lord John's party having disappeared in the direction of the card room as soon as was politely permissible after their arrival; but Jeannie and Miss Cadman soon paired up, finding much to talk about in reminiscences of a place neither of them had left behind more than a year ago, two heads of fair curls bowed together over the table; Mrs Weir fell swiftly into conversation with an old friend of hers seated at their table, a Bohemian count by the name of Zelenka, the two of them discussing people whom Rodney didn't know and whose names he knew he could not even begin to pronounce; leaving him to make conversation with Lord John.

His lordship frowned at Rodney a little; at first, Rodney thought it had something to do with the way he was picking at the dry cake which formed such an infamously large portion of these suppers — it wasn't particularly palatable, true, but standing around aimlessly for so long did give one quite an appetite — and he pushed back his place a little, his cheeks beginning to heat. There was a reason he didn't go out into society with any great frequency, and — but then Lord John's brow cleared, and he said, "I was certain I collected the name. You are the Mr McKay who is in correspondence with Jackson, aren't you? The physician on board the _Astraea_; I've heard him and Commander O'Neill mention your name several times."

"I have that questionable honour, yes," Rodney said; when he saw his lordship raise an eyebrow, he clarified, "Jackson is all well and good in his own way— he is certainly better than most in the Royal Society — and he makes some useful observations of celestial events for me, but I cannot believe him a true man of science. No one who spends their life at sea could be, to my mind."

Both of his lordship's eyebrows disappeared beneath the hair that tumbled onto his brow. "You disapprove of the navy, sir?"

"I disapprove of anything which diverts one's attention from a life of scholarship, yes," Rodney responded, chin tilting upwards defiantly, "And for a return which seems to me to be most paltry. Besides which," he continued, sounding as unwilling to speak as if Lord John were forcing the words from him, "I am quite afflicted with the sea sickness."

"A terrible affliction," Lord John agreed with all apparent sincerity, though there was something in his tone which Rodney couldn't quite interpret. One corner of his mouth twitched slightly.

"You do not suffer from it yourself, then?" Rodney asked.

"There are several reasons," Lord John responded, "as to why I resigned my commission in the navy, but sea sickness is not one of them."

Rodney blinked at him. He had known several members of the navy in his time—a great-uncle of his had risen to Rear-Admiral of the White, and he remembered several officers coming to call when he was a child—all of them great, bluff fellows with faces reddened from the salt air and manners as loud as their voices. There did not seem to be much of the navy man in Lord John, who seemed as if he would be as more at home on Bond Street, playing the dandy, than he would be sailing off the coast of Barbados.

"You are in the navy?" Rodney said, noting the way that made the other man stiffen slightly and set his jaw, "I would not have thought it—"

But before Rodney had a chance to question him further—to ask him what the stars were like on the other side of the world—they were disturbed by the ladies, who had risen to dance once more. Rodney made known his objections on that score to Jeannie, for as gratifying as it was to see her enjoying herself, he could think of few things less interesting than watching another half dozen country dances played by indifferent musicians.

"Not, not a country dance this time," Jeannie said, clinging to his arm as they made their way back into the ballroom, "But the quadrille! And just think, if Princess Lieven or Lady Jersey approve of me, I could be granted leave to waltz!"

Rodney looked down at her, startled. "The waltz, Jeannie? Isn't that a dance for people who are, well, fast?"

"Don't be such a goose," Jeannie replied, "If Lady Jersey approves of it, I'm sure no one can censure me for it." She patted him on the arm before moving off to take her place in the square of couples with her partner, a young man by the name of Miller, whom Mrs Weir assured him was from an unobjectionable if unremarkable family from Bedfordshire; her distraction and excitement were such that she missed her brother's grumbling of, "Clearly you have not been introduced to any of the Jerseys."

The music struck up again, and Rodney was just about to reclaim his place by the wall when Lord John touched him at the elbow. "You don't dance, McKay?"

Rodney sniffed. "I do not care for it," he replied. "Besides," he admitted in one of those crushing fits of honesty which he could never seem to shake, "I have no wish to make a May game of myself in front of half of London society; my dance master always told me that I had two left feet and—"

"—those sewn on backwards?" Lord John finished, an amused smile crinkling up the corner of his eyes. "I think we share the same facility for dance."

"Oh," Rodney said nonplussed, moving with his lordship so that they were both standing in one corner of the ballroom, out of the way of the whirling dancers, "I would have thought—but it's gratifying not to meet another male paragon. Jean has informed me repeatedly that I am the only gentleman in London not elderly and married who does not stand up to dance, and you know, it has almost put me out of patience with her?"

"I would never believe it of you," Lord John informed him gravely, "But at least now you may tell your sister that there are two just like us in London."

"Indeed?" Rodney said, and smiled at him.

"Just so," Lord John said, and when he grinned back, Rodney almost believed that he could dance, just a little.


End file.
